To be Light as a Feather
by kielle1
Summary: Chapter 2 uploaded: In which the question 'so just where is purgatory, anyway?' gets answered.
1. Default Chapter

Title: To be light as a feather  
Author: Kielle  
Source: Dogma  
  
Summery: Loki deals with the repercussions of the past when  
he's asked to take a very familiar soul from it's   
current incarnation. The title comes from the Egyptian  
mythology, where your heart had to be light as a feather  
before you could enter paradise.   
  
Warnings: Post-Dogma, slash much, much later, angstyness,  
language (though if you've seen the movie I suppose it's  
mild), typical 'Bartleby and Loki thrown together post-  
dogma' clicheness...though I've tried to make it good.  
  
"I've got you now, you fucker..."   
  
The Angel of Death's voice was cheerful as he stalked across the enveloping  
blackness of the hospital room. His shoes squeaked on the linoleum,   
causing him to wince. The mundane sound caused him to curse for the hundredth  
time the small print written into his new job description...from now on Loki  
was only to take souls that hung in balance, and no more flaming sword. At   
first he was sure it was some extra kind of punishment, a remnant of God's  
wrath for the whole fucking 'unmake existence' fiasco...but no. It was   
just that the kinder, gentler God didn't see fit to terrorize Her darlings  
with a fiery weapon-wielding reaper of souls.   
  
"Now I'm more like the garbage man, picking up the unwanted." The grumbling  
was less than good natured. With a soft sigh he positioned himself by the  
hospital bed, trying to make out the face of the John Doe he was about to  
take. "You know, I think that's what's wrong with the world today, bud. Too  
much trash, not enough Holy Hellfire being rained on the world."   
His conversational tone was lost on the vegetable, and Loki rolled his eyes  
heavenward, cracking his knuckles. With the finesse of a millennia of   
practice, flaming sword or no, the angel deftly reached out to grasp the  
soul of the lost mortal. And blanched.  
  
"Holy Fucking Shit!" Loki jerked back as if he had been burned and leapt  
up, releasing himself from the mortal level before he even had a chance to   
consciously realize his actions. Heart and head pounding, he instinctively   
sought Her presence, his accusatory thoughts ringing throughout the ethereal   
planes.   
  
*You...shit...why? He's...Ugh!*  
  
And then She was there, Her light blinding him with Her radiance anew,  
and Loki found his head resting in the palms of God's hands as she   
lightly stroked the cheek of her favored angel. Yes, most favorite, in  
fact...She smiled lightly as she waited for him to think something   
coherent...preferably non-profane as well.   
  
Which he finally did, his eyes of brilliant blue looking up to stare  
God in the face.   
  
"I know that soul."   
  
God looked down at him, a little surprised at the hardness in Loki's voice.  
  
"You got another chance, Angel of Death. You were not even required to pass  
a mortal test."   
  
Loki rolled his eyes.  
  
"Yeah, *hello*, that's because I was the victim! Bartleby was..." Loki   
caught himself, the words leaving him. He hadn't let himself even think the  
name of his longtime friend turned traitor. He looked down at the shapeless  
floor of Heaven, feeling a bitter and choking taste in his mouth. She could  
feel his hate, he knew it, but he'd be damned if...Oh god. He looked up  
to see Her eyes, and they were more sorrowful than he could remember.   
  
"Can you not forgive him Loki?"  
  
"I..." He hung his head, shamed. He could say yes, but She would know.   
Part of his mind screamed that this conversation shouldn't even be   
happening...Every single time things had gone wrong, it was Bartleby's  
fault. Loki was the victim here...a blindly trusting, loving victim.   
But was was the operative word. He was different now, on his own. And She  
should understand that. Had to understand that, or else...Lifting his head   
he gritted his teeth to spit out the word he knew She could hear in his mind.   
  
"No."   
  
A third voice came out of the distance, one that was ringing, smug, and  
damnably British.   
  
"You can't stay if you don't forgive him, you do know that don't you? Or  
have you forgotten how this place works?"   
  
Loki glared in the direction of the Metatron, wishing he could   
physically wipe the smirk off the older angel's face. It was God's  
touch, feather light and still on his face, that restrained him.  
  
"He's right, Loki. You can't..."  
  
"Oh, so what are you going to do about it then?!" The question was most  
obviously rhetorical, though Metatron was tempted to pipe up with,  
"Well, whatever the hell She wants." But Loki's temper was flaring, and  
both God and Angel stayed silent.  
  
"What, send me back to Wisconsin? Turn me mortal? Hell? Would that suit  
you seeing as how I can't seem to get over the fact that the one person  
I trusted beyond anyone, even more than You, went completely off his   
rocker, hacked my wings to a bloody pulp, stabbed me in the side and   
basically shoved me right off his list of 'people I give a fuck about'?"  
  
God's hand over his mouth silenced him. With her other hand she patted  
him lovingly on the head, as one would a petulant child or scared puppy.  
  
"Loki." Her sternness was better than Her infinite love for getting his   
attention right now, and he nodded. The sensation in his body was what  
humans would call a 'sinking feeling'...tight dread, anger, and anticipation  
wrapped up into a neat ball that sat at the pit of the stomach. "I told  
you you would never be sent to Hell. And mortality has...complications, not  
the least of which is that if you do screw it up, you *will* go to Hell."  
  
"Fuck." It was a very concise statement that perfectly matched Loki's  
mindset.   
  
"I have no choice, Loki. I cannot have warring souls in Heaven. You two  
must absolve yourselves of hatred. Bartleby's mortal life has freed him from  
most of his debt, but self-hatred consumes his soul." She made a small  
chiding noise at Loki's doubtful expression. "I'm sorry..."  
  
"So off too purgatory we go." Metatron's tone was almost chipper,   
and Loki turned a fear-inspiring gaze upon the seraphim. "Oh come on,   
it's not the worst that could happen. You're not going to hell,   
there'll be peace and quiet around here at last, and as soon as you and   
the Watcher kiss and make up you're both home free." The glare  
was not lessened, and Metatron flexed his wings, head cocked to the side.   
"Really, there's no reasoning with some people..."  
  
God smiled at Her two angels, the beatific light of Her warming Loki's  
soul and almost making him forget that he was about to be punished. Vaguely  
he wondered what purgatory was like...he'd delivered enough souls there,  
maybe he should have taken one of those cheery cherubim receptionists  
up on the offer to go past the waiting room.   
  
"It won't be long. And I will be with you. I love you, Loki." And then she was gone,   
leaving him stranded in the halls of Heaven, with the Voice and a scared  
uncertainty that wouldn't leave.   
  
"Yeah, yeah..." Loki grumbled at the nothingness where She had been, feeling  
Metatron's hand on his arm, ready to drag him to purgatory. "You say that to all   
Your creations."  
  
A/N: Next chapter: Bartleby, purgatory, but no kissing and making up. Who knows  
when it'll be out. Maybe *cough* reviews *cough* will inspire me. :) And yes,  
this will be slash eventually. By the way, I'd really like feedback and   
constructive criticism. It's my first time writing this source, and plus a first  
chapter is all about letting a story find it's feet. Let me know if it needs  
crutches. *grin* 


	2. deux

Title: To be light as a feather  
Author: Kielle  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Not Loki, not Bartleby, and not  
Metatron (even though he lives in my closet).   
  
  
The waiting room was overly bright, silent, and boring. The limited reading  
material hadn't been changed in a good thousand years, Bartleby noticed,   
and he was number three-thousand ninety six on the waiting list. Nothing   
to do, really, but stare at the other disembodied souls and wallow in  
self-pity. Remorse was very intoxicating, really, and the knowledge  
of one good life didn't exactly make up for the previous treason.  
  
"Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that   
your brother has something against you, leave your gift there in front of   
the altar. First go and be reconciled to your brother; then come and offer   
your gift."  
  
"Don't quote scripture at me." Bartleby muttered tiredly, tilting his chin  
forward to his chest. The tall form of Metatron slid easily though the   
lighted doorway from purgatory proper, his arms crossed neatly over a shirt  
of black silk.   
  
"Wasn't me, it was Her. She rather thought it fitting."   
  
The ex-Watcher rubbed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, tugging  
absently at his jacket. He stared blankly at Metatron,  
brown eyes clear.  
  
"So where's hell?"  
  
"Right where it's always been, of course." The Voice idly plucked lint  
off his sleeve. "Oh, you mean with regards to you?"  
  
"Bingo." His gaze flickered behind Metatron to where an overly perky cherubim  
was finally getting to number two on the decision list. Christ, they could   
be here forever before he got any answers. Longer if he had to wait for Metaron  
to play it straight with him.   
  
"Well of course you're not going to Hell. Really now. You led a good mortal life.  
Boring as grass growing, yes, but not bad...though that's probably why. I mean  
really, what kind of trouble can an accountant get into..."  
  
"Moving on..." The last thing Bartleby needed was Metatron's opinion of his   
mortal occupation.   
  
"Well then, no need to be huffy. Anyway, by all rights you should be Home. You  
kept the faith, didn't kill anyone, and once saved a stray kitten from an   
obnoxious child if I remember correctly. Heaven-bound."   
  
"So why am I here?" Bartleby climbed to his feet, his eyes hardening. "Look, if you  
say I've earned it, I've earned it. I'll take hell for what I did, or Heaven if   
you say so, but purgatory...Look, Metatron, there's nothing for me here."  
  
"Au contraire." The angel smirked and waved his hand, and the waiting room seemed  
to dissolve into mists. "What you're here to deal with, Watcher, is behind door  
number two..."  
  
Bartleby's breath choked as he was allowed a clear vision across the gray plains  
of purgatory. In the distance was an unmistakable blonde form, wings outstretched,  
chatting with some little ethereal being of light or another and sipping what looked  
like a beer.  
  
"Loki?" His mind reeled. Loki. Here. With wings, meaning he was an angel again...how  
the hell did that happen? "What ha...why?"  
  
"All questions answered in due time, Bartleby." The Metatron gave him a condescending  
pat on the shoulder. "Now as for you boys...do try to play nice."   
  
There was a chiming noise, and Bartleby suddenly found the familiar grey mists  
of a non-corporeal realm replaced by an even more familiar arrangement of streets and  
shops. In fact, it even looked vaugly like...  
  
"Wisconsin?"   
  
A red-head standing on the street corner laughed. "No doll...Kansas. Or at least a subsection.  
Welcome to purgatory."  
  
  
Notes: The scripture quote is Mathew 5:23. Chapter three coming within the next week or two,   
hopefully. It's that weird chapter, where I know what I'm doing up to it, and know what   
I'm doing after it, but don't quite know how to write the in-between. Oh well, read and  
review! 


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